


stained glass eyes and colorful tears

by orphan_account



Category: My Chemical Romance
Genre: Alcoholism, Drug Abuse, M/M, Smut, Substance Abuse, handjobs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-05
Updated: 2021-01-05
Packaged: 2021-03-15 15:22:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,530
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28566150
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: there's so many things he wants to say, but mikey's soft snoring coming from frank's own bunk makes all the words die on his tongue. so instead, he drifts off, a million miles away and a few feet apart.
Relationships: Frank Iero/Mikey Way
Kudos: 8





	stained glass eyes and colorful tears

frank can't say he doesn't expect it most nights. though, there's still some amount of surprise when mikey's timid, clumsy trot and near-incoherent words wake him from his slumber in the bunk.

he knows it can't be anyone else. gerard's at a signing for his new comic series, and ray's helping record some parts for some band or other that frank can't remember the name of. that leaves mikey, either high, drunk, or simultaneously both _(the most likely option)_ clambering into the bunk area at three in the morning.

"mikey?" frank croaks, voice hoarse from sleep. he gets no answer but the sound of mikey scrambling frantically as he climbs into bunk.

"i don't wanna fall again, need you to keep me down, save me-" mikey's trailing off in the middle of his sentences, slurring words together. he smells like stale cigarettes and frank can't tell what he's been drinking, but he'll assess the damage from the tour bus's liquor cabinet in the morning. frank adds it to the never-ending list of things he needs to do.

"save you from what?" frank asks, deciding to entertain mikey's influenced rambling, wrapping his arms around mikey on auto-pilot. but mikey's squirming away, reflexes just a little too fast and pupils just a (lot) blown wide. there's a stain of white powder on his tiger-striped shirt, the green one he always wears on stage, and the managers are gonna be on his ass for that, frank thinks absentmindedly.

meanwhile, mikey's dragging himself down the length of frank's body, awkwardly positioning himself between frank's thighs.

"myself, just, please-" mikey finally answers. his eyes are rimmed red and purple against his pale skin, and he looks up at frank, a messiah vision of naivety and innocence. frank's heart squeezes in his chest. mikey's drug-shaky hands fumble at frank's zipper. he tries to nudge mikey away, but mikey's insistent.

"mikey. mikey, stop. you're not thinking right." frank pushes mikey's hands away from his zipper and shit, it's like kicking a puppy, because mikey's looking up at him from between his knees like frank's the last transport on doomsday, the end is near and mikey's the epitome of a refugee, cocaine-dried blood messily wiped from his nose.

"m' gonna die, frankie. it's all closing in, i don't wanna die..." mikey sobs, head rested against frank's thigh. he's still bunched up, knobby knees stuffed unceremoniously into the side of frank's bunk, but he doesn't make any move to readjust.

"hey. don't say that. it's gonna be okay." frank tries, and it's so stereotypical he wants to laugh, because if he doesn't laugh he thinks he'll be right there in tears along with mikey. instead, frank runs an inked hand through mikey's greasy hair. he tries to avoid the knots, which proves harder than he thought it'd be.

frank's hand comes to rest in the crook of mikey's jaw, holding mikey's face in his palm. he strokes lightly at mikey's eyebrow, and mikey makes a pleased, throaty noise that frank thinks is as close to purring as a human can get. he thumbs at mikey's red, bitten lips, chapped and peeling with too many nights of anxiety and insomnia.

his eyes are glazed over, and the brown streak that frank always loved is swallowed whole by the black emptiness of mikey's dilated pupils. it makes him damn melancholy.

"c'mere." frank sighs finally, and mikey's springing up to him. his chapped lips are like placebo against frank's; they feel soft, and mikey kisses him like frank's the very oxygen he breathes. mikey's hands nestle in the fabric of frank's shirt, probably stretching the material, but frank doesn't have to heart to stop him.

frank's brain stops floating in the clouds and gets with the program, and he half-wittedly wonders if the amount of drugs mikey's taken tonight is giving him some sort of contact high through this makeout session. he slots his knee between mikey's thighs, and the groan that leaves mikey's mouth at the new source of friction goes straight to frank's dick.

mikey's got one hand on the side of frank's face, pulling him closer than frank thought was humanly possible, and the other is gripping frank's hand that's rested on mikey's thigh so tight his knuckles are pinched between mikey's fingers.

frank sits up so mikey can settle between his legs, back pressed to frank's chest like an anchor. the bunk is small and confining, but mikey doesn't seem to care.

"frankie, please-" mikey's whimpering, arching his back as frank runs his finger along the sparse trail of hair that runs from mikey's belly button to the waistband of his boxers. he's more impatient than usual, so frank moves to slide mikey's boxers and pants from his thin hips and mikey kicks the garments off his ankles eagerly.

he's half hard already, the tip of his cock flushed red against his pale skin. frank drags his guitar string-callused finger over the slit, smearing the beads of precum gathering on the head of mikey's cock. mikey mewls, twisting like a fishhook in frank's grip.

"shh. i know, i'll take care of you." frank coos, wrapping a firm hand around mikey's cock. a soft, content sigh escapes mikey's lips at his bandmate's touch, and frank can't begin to wrap his head around how wrong this is. but mikey's calm, happy even, and that's a vivid contrast to the way he was just frantic in his cocaine-driven delirium a few moments ago.

"there's my good boy. just relax." frank cajoles through gritted teeth, thumbing mikey's slit the way he knows he likes it with every other stroke. mikey's head is thrown against frank's shoulder, pressing painfully into the perpetual bruise from where his guitar strap hangs during performances.

in this position, frank can truly marvel at the less noticable parts of mikey; the dark, sunken veins on his forearms, littered with pockmarks and lighter burns. the permanent indents of his callused hands, grooved and sculpted to where his bass sits every night. frank's hands look the same, roughened over time to withstand the conditions of being on the road.

he wishes mikey could be like that. strong enough to adapt to all this change. hell, he wishes gerard could to; gerard's been sober for years now, but on nights like this, when he's at big parties where people undoubtedly treat him as a v.i.p., frank worries about relapse. he knows it sounds selfish, but the band wouldn't withstand having both mikey and gee down at the same time.

even mikey's breakdowns are taking a toll on him recently. he doesn't like seeing him so weak; he's pliable beneath frank right now, rigid, bruised muscles finally loosening under the younger man's skilled touch. it makes him sick to his stomach, but all he wants to do is mend mikey, save the talking for later. metaphorically bandage what he can with coffee and a non-poetic hand down his pants.

mikey's making those little gasps and mewls that mean he's close, his noises becoming more choked as frank's wrist pumps impossibly faster on his cock.

"please, please-" mikey's babbling between whimpers, and frank nuzzles and bites sweet kisses into the sensitive skin behind mikey's ear.

and then frank twists his hand one last time and it's suddenly all too much, and mikey's bucking into his fist, a sob ripped from his throat as he cums so hard his vision becomes dotted with stars.

frank lets mikey ride out his high before sliding out from beneath him, lowering him as carefully as he can. mikey's already half-asleep, watching frank disappear into the bathroom with lidded eyes.

frank reappears a few moments later and begins using a warm, wet washcloth to wipe the cum from mikey's belly and thighs. mikey just shivers and lets frank clean him, sparing a shut-eyed grin when frank kisses the tip of his nose.

frank wonders if it's worth it to mikey. losing everybody who loves you in pursuit of that perfect high, the high that leaves you seizing and convulsing on the bathroom floor of a shitty tourbus. the high that leaves your bandmates to take care of you, only able to heal you with touch and shushing.

a "g'night, mikey" dies on the tip of frank's tongue. it's not like mikey would hear him anyway. so instead he goes through the motions; he throws away the washcloth in the bathroom trash and tries to ignore the bright orange casing of a leftover needle on the counter. frank's still half-hard, he tries to get rid of it but he goes soft under his own touch. it doesn't matter. not much does anymore. he takes a piss and brushes his teeth, but it doesn't make him feel any more normal.

and when frank's finally run out of things to do, he trudges back to the bunk area and climbs into mikey's bunk. it's cold and empty, no surprise there.

there's so many things he wants to say, but mikey's soft snoring coming from frank's own bunk makes all the words die on his tongue. so instead, he drifts off, a million miles away and a few feet apart.


End file.
